


In Apprehension, How Like a God

by Anonymous



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Face Slapping, Gen, God Complex, Hair-pulling, Impact Play, M/M, Pain, Platonic Soulmates, Sort of Incest a Little Bit, They Don't Fuck, Using carefully controlled and consensual pain as a coping technique, Whipping, this makes it sound a lot kinkier than it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 04:44:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Connor swallows hard and rubs his throat with one hand. "Murph."</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Bur Murphy's already turning away, pulling on his coat and heading for the door. "I'm goin' out. Back before dark."</i>
  <br/>
  <i>And then the door bangs shut.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Connor stares at the door for a long moment, then traces Murphy's steps to the exit and puts his brother's rosary on. It's unlike Murphy to forget it, but it's unlike Murphy to look like Jesus or punch him in the stomach, so he tucks the beads under his shirt and when Murphy gets back as the sun is going down, smelling like the wood resin of church pews, they don't say anything about it.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Apprehension, How Like a God

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is written for Asexual Awareness Week 2013.  
> In case it's not terribly obvious, the ace character in question is Murphy. 
> 
> Many thanks to Sequoia for being the reason I have enough experience to write this. (they said they wanted props in the notes so here you go dude)

It doesn't take long, after the first few hits.

Connor times it, thinking back, at about a month before he notices Murphy acting strange. It's that manufactured kind of strange, too, the kind where someone's trying not to act strange and they overshoot it. He notices when Murphy's face goes slack for minutes at a time, lost in something only his mind can see. He notices the tossing and turning at night - not the nights of the hits, but always the ones after. Connor writes it off as nerves; Murphy was "a bit" nervous the first time with the Russian mob, and Connor reckons he's always been a bit nervous since.

And it doesn't totally add up for a while.

Connor comes back from a grocery run one day to find Murphy sprawled on the floor next to his bed. His eyes are closed and arms thrown straight out to the sides. Connor feels a moment of terror shoot through him as he tries to check for breathing or bullet holes, followed by a moment of panicked suspicion. Theoretically, no one knows where they live - they shift every month or two, and lots of landlords in South Boston secretly approve of what they do so they aren't telling - but if someone found out… What a goddamn message it would leave. 

Connor edges toward Murphy's body until he's a couple of feet away, then reaches out and prods Murphy's foot with the toe of his boot. Murphy's eyes flicker open and focus on Connor standing above him, and Connor lets out a breath of relief that turns to exasperated anger. He aims a harder kick and Murphy's foot and Murphy yelps, jerking backwards.

"What the fuck d'you think you're doin'?" Connor demands.

"What am _I_ doin'? What the fuck d'you think _you're_ doin'?" Murphy shoots back, scrambling to his feet.

"I went out to get food like I said. I wasn't the one splayed out on the floor like Jesus fuckin' Christ!"

Murphy's eyes narrow. "Hey, Lord's fuckin' name."

Connor throws his hands in the air. "Lord's fuckin' name, my arse! Fuckin' rich coming from you, you look like you were goddamn crucified on the floor!"

"Oi!" Murphy lunges forward and shoves Connor's shoulders. "We ain't the Lord and you know it."

"Then don't goddamn act like it," Connor says. "Fuckin' job going to your head?"

He isn't really sure exactly when Murphy moves. All he knows is that one second, Murphy is giving him the most seething, vitriolic look, and then the next, they're slamming against a wall. Connor's head bounces hard against the concrete and his resulting yell gets cut off by Murphy's arm across his throat. Murphy drives the heel of his palm into Connor's abdomen and Connor doubles over, wheezing, until Murphy pins him back.

"I'm not the goddamn Lord," he hisses, and Connor can see the muscles in his jaw twitching. "I know I'm not, an' I don't fucking wish I was. We're not in control here. He is." Murphy's arm slips down from Connor's throat to his chest, not really pressing anymore. His gaze drops to some point on the wall next to Connor's jaw and, "He is."

Murphy lets Connor go completely and steps back and breathes, "He is," like a prayer that he wishes were true.

Connor swallows hard and rubs his throat with one hand. "Murph."

Bur Murphy's already turning away, pulling on his coat and heading for the door. "I'm goin' out. Back before dark."

And then the door bangs shut.

Connor stares at the door for a long moment, then traces Murphy's steps to the exit and puts his brother's rosary on. It's unlike Murphy to forget it, but it's unlike Murphy to look like Jesus or punch him in the stomach, so he tucks the beads under his shirt and when Murphy gets back as the sun is going down, smelling like the wood resin of church pews, they don't say anything about it.

~

It happens again, soon enough.

Connor doesn't call it out anymore. But he notices. 

He notices when Murphy sleeps like the Lord, lying prostrate on his shitty mattress with his arms out to the side. Connor doesn't know if it's in tribute or in mimicry, but they still haven't talked about that afternoon, so he doesn't want to ask.

He notices how rash Murphy gets after hits, irritated to the point of anger over absolutely nothing. Whenever Connor suggests going out for pints at their latest underground bar, or tossing a comment over his shoulder about Murphy picking his goddamn laundry up off the floor, Murphy turns into a small nuclear explosion and nearly blows the windows out shouting back at him. He always goes quiet after, and usually disappears, and his jacket always smells like wood resin after. And they don't talk about it.

Well, he doesn't. 

Murphy does.

But only late at night, when Connor's curled up on his side, buried under his blankets with just the top of head head poking out. Only then does Murphy slide out from under his covers and kneel down on the floor with his forehead resting against his mattress and his back hunched and his hands folded in his lap, or clasped in front of him like a begging man. 

Which is true. Murphy is a begging man.

The muscles in his back tighten as he murmurs to himself and he asks God for forgiveness and for strength - and it sounds like he's asking God to take away his strength sometimes but that can't be true, can it? - and it's always weird because Connor hasn't seen Murphy kneel by his bed and beg since they were children back in Ireland, praying before bed that their Ma would find work and their Da would come home and they would live long and healthy and together. And they prayed for strength then like Murphy prays for strength now, in those muffled words that sound like begging for weakness.

It continues week after week, and not every day. Some days Murphy's himself again, making bad jokes and slapping Connor on the back and laughing brightly. And then some days, he's angry again. They fight and they fight hard, Murphy trying to land some damage and Connor doing damage control until Murphy breaks and leaves and goes to church and comes back and prays on his knees all night for God to cut him down and humble him. 

Connor knows, now, that that's what Murphy's asking for on those nights. He strains his ears over his own little fake snores and listens to Murphy asking God to make him _less_ strong, _less_ powerful, and Connor doesn't understand. Because they don't really have power, not really. They have the divine word guiding them God's own hand reaching down and sticking guns into their bags and pointing at arseholes who don't deserve to share this holy Earth anymore. Any yet Murphy acts like it's them, like it's all them, like they just up and started killing people.

 _Fuckin' job going to your head?_ Connor remembers saying, and Murphy never said no. 

~

It's bad tonight, it's so bad, and Connor is thinking about lashing Murphy down to the bed with his belt because the fucker will _not sit still_. He gets up and paces and sits down and rolls onto his side and back, and he makes Connor feel tired just looking at him. They're camped out in a basement tonight - they move after every hit now, so as soon as they got back from the hotel that afternoon, they'd packed up their duffel bags of guns and worn t-shirts, blessed the room and the fuckers who built it, and then ran for it. Doc's son in law knew a guy who knew a guy, or something like that, Connor's not really sure of the details, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is that they've got a roof over their heads (well, a ceiling and then two more stories) and it's quiet and they won't get found here.

Murphy walks past him again and Connor grips the neck of his beer bottle tightly and pretends it's Murphy's throat. "For God's sake, Murph, will you not just sit down for three bloody seconds?"

Murphy looks up like he's been struck. "Fuck off, Connor." 

"I'm serious, man. You're wearin' a hole in the floor and it's driving me mad. Sit down, have a beer, and shut your fuckin' brain off for once."

He sets down his beer just in time for Murphy to hit him square in the face. It's not a light smack either, no gentle open hand. It's a straight up punch, right to the jaw, and Connor sees stars  as he falls back out of the chair and lands hard on the floor. Murphy drops down on top of him and tries to land another blow, but Connor's been in this position so many times over the course of their lives that he reaches a hand out and stops Murphy's fist in midair, then twists to the side. Murphy shouts out some sort of curse and Connor flips him off, pinning his arms to the side and sitting down hard on his stomach to keep him from moving. Murphy struggles, so Connor slaps him across the face once, twice, and three times for good measure before pinning him back down.

"What the fuck is _wrong_ with you, Murph?" It doesn't sound angry, it's as gentle as Connor can make it given the fact that he just got punched in the jaw, but Murphy visibly flinches anyway. 

"Nothin's wrong," he says quietly.

Connor slaps him again and Murphy lets out a ragged breath.

"Like fuck there's not. You've been off for goddamn months now, it's makin' you impossible to live with. You're pissed off all the time, you spend more time in church than we ever did as kids, you're back to prayin' on your knees like a boy–"

Murphy pales a little. "You don't know that–"

"Yes I do, you blind bastard. I sleep next to you, you think I don't see know what's going on?"

"You've no idea what's going on!" Murphy snarls. He lunges up at Connor - to bite him? Connor doesn't know. Murphy's always been a rash little fucker - and Connor reaches up and slams his head back onto the ground. Murphy lets out a pained little whimper and goes still under him.

Connor blinks, then leans forward a little bit, looking for the flutter of an eyelid or the beat of a pulse. "Murph? Y'alright?"

"I can't." It's so quiet Connor can barely hear it.

"Can't what?"

"I can't turn it off," Murphy says miserably. "I can't, Conn, I've fuckin' tried, but it never stops."

"What doesn't?"

"Don't you ever just feel like it's too much? Like we're takin' on too much, like we've got too much power here? There're loads of people here, and they don' kill people."

Connor's eyebrows draw together. "Are you sayin' we're doing the wrong thing?"

"No!" Murphy shakes his head furiously. "No, 'course not, He told us what He wanted us to do, it's just…" He shrugs a little and Connor lets go of his arms. "It's hard to get out of. It's hard to walk in an' kill someone an' then jus' turn around and leave and keep going. It weights on you."

"And you can't get out from under that sometimes," Connor finishes quietly.

Murphy nods. "It's too much sometimes. It's too much control over the world, makes me feel like the Lord and fuck knows I don't want to be that. But I don't know how t'get out from it."

Connor breathes in for a moment, then sighs and sits back. He goes to climb off of Murphy, but Murphy's arms shoot out and grab for him blindly. Connor jerks away on instinct, then lets Murphy's hands gather into his shirt and settles back on his brother's stomach, careful not to put too much weight on him.

"Please don't leave," Murphy breathes. "Not like Rocco did, please don't leave, and don't let me be the one to do it."

The words feel like ice shooting through Connor's fingertips, up his arms and through his chest, making it hard for him to breathe. He bows his head and then bows his body until their foreheads bump together, Murphy's nose pressed against his cheek. "You never would."

Murphy lets out a shaky breath and nods against his brother's face. They stay there for a while, until Connor loses the feeling in his feet and he hauls Murphy up, feeds him a couple of shots of whiskey, and puts him to bed with the promise that he'll absolutely be there in the morning.

He doesn't sleep much, and he knows that Murphy doesn't either.

~

Things are tense the next day. To his credit, Murphy doesn't put on an air of swagger and try to pretend that it didn't happen. He doesn't play it off with a joke about priests or a sarcastic remark. He nods to Connor in the morning when they both get dressed, and the nod says _I know it happened, and I'm sorry._

Murphy's subdued the rest of the day, and Connor doesn't comment on it. It's better than the pacing and teeth grinding and constant noise of Murphy on edge, but only just. This Murphy is silent, embarrassed, and practically unwilling to meet Connor's eye when he looks away from that spot on the wall that he keeps falling into staring at blankly.

Murphy sits and stares at the peeling paint, and Connor sits and stares at Murphy, tracing his gaze over his bangs and his forehead and cheeks and nose and mouth hanging slightly open and muttering in something that's probably not English, down the back of his neck to his shoulders that are too tight like they've always been, his back that's more hunched than Connor's ever seen it, legs that are folded up to his chest. His fingers fly over rosary beads sometimes, so much that Connor thinks the polish is starting to come off, and he prays to their God every couple of hours, like it's all he can think of to do.

Connor stares at the mess of quiet panic that is Murphy and his chest hurts.

Around dinner - or whenever they decide to have dinner, the basement is well sealed and light doesn't come in from anywhere - Murphy gets up and starts pacing again. Connor makes a sandwich and cuts it in half, then eats his part and puts the other on a plate for Murphy and puts the plate at the corner of the table. Murphy glances at it on his way past, then looks back down at the floor, fingers drumming into his leg as he walks away.

"Murph, eat somethin'," Connor calls from the table.

Murphy murmurs something unintelligible and passes by the table again without taking the sandwich.

"Murphy, I swear t'God, take the sandwich and put it in your mouth."

"You're not our fuckin' Ma."

Connor rolls his eyes. "You're bein' fuckin' childish."

Murphy flips him off and pushes the sandwich back toward the middle of the table. The plate clatters and Connor is on his feet before it settles.

Murphy's eyes widen, and for a split second, he looks terrified.

"Murph," Connor says quietly. "Are you stuck?"

Murphy breathes in sharply, then lowers his eyes to the ground and nods once, jerkily.

"Come here."

His head jerks to the side this time, back and forth once. _No._

And then Connor's closing the gap between them in three long strides and his fingers are tight in Murphy's hair, squeezing and pulling back hard, and Murphy's stumbling back, forced onto his toes, flailing his hands to try to get some sort of purchase on something, but his eyes are closed and they stay closed until Connor lets him go. Murphy blinks blearily as he steadies himself, then looks at Connor dead on for only the second time all day. "Why'd you–"

"You needed it," Connor says. "Christ, Murph, you still do."

Murphy looks pale, and his eyes dart from side to side, and Connor can see the exact moment the shock wears off and the panic kicks in again, and he times that exact moment with the flat of his hand crashing into Murphy's cheek.

Murphy hits the floor hard, and Connor's right there with him, driving his forehead into the floor and pinning him by the back of his neck. Murphy yells and tries to roll out from under him, but Connor tightens his grip and waits for the thrashing to subside. It does eventually, thrashing turning into squirming, that turns into stillness except for the rise and fall of Murphy's back as he pants into the floor. Connor doesn't let up his grip, but he rubs at Murphy's side with his free hand, trying to calm him down faster.

After a very long while, Murphy sighs and relaxes, slumping down to the floor. Connor squeezes his neck a little tighter, then draws away. Murphy lets out some kind of whimper and tenses up a little.

"Relax, Murph, 'm not done with you," Connor says quietly. "Just wanted t'ask a couple things."

Murphy nods. "Okay."

"D'you think this will help?"

Another nod. "Reckon so."

"Alright," Connor says. "Then I'll do it for you, if that's what you need."

Murphy tenses a little more, but swallows hard and says, "Okay."

Connor cards one hand through Murphy's hair. "D'you need to struggle? Is that a thing?"

Murphy lets out a bark of laughter. "Like I couldn' take you, there wouldn't be a–"

Connor grabs a handful of Murphy's hair and bangs his head against the ground. Murphy goes quiet again. "Do you need to fight, Murphy? Is that part of this?"

Murphy shakes his head. "Maybe at first, but not really."

"Okay," Connor says, more to himself than to his brother. "You just want to hurt."

"I want you to do it," Murphy says quietly. "I don' want to hurt for anyone but you."

Connor's skin feels too small for his body. "Alright, Murph. You won' hurt for anyone but me."

Murphy turns his head to the side a little, just enough for Connor to see one half-lidded eye. "Thank you."

It's the last thing he says for a while.

Connor hauls Murphy up by his hair and dodges the elbow that swings backward entirely out of habit. He pulls Murphy up, up until he's on his knees, then holds him there until he's sure Murphy's gotten the point. When he lets go, Murphy is still, poised on his knees with his hands threatening to creep around his back. Connor nods. "Behind you, Murph, I can see that you want to."

Relief flashes across Murphy's face and he folds his hands at the small of his back, right wrist tucked into his left hand. His shoulders slump down a little bit and his expression clears slowly into something blank but perfectly readable. Connor crouches down in front of him and tilts his chin up with two fingers. "You still in there?"

Murphy nods.

"Good." Connor shifts his balance to his back foot, then backhands Murphy hard. Murphy's head snaps to the side and his mouth opens a little, but no sound comes out and he slowly turns back, licking his lips for any traces of blood. Connor briefly wonders if Murphy would want to bleed and feels a rush of warmth in his stomach, but he ignores it. Murphy twitches a little bit, so Connor reaches up and grips his jaw tight. He jerks Murphy's head back to the side and leans in close to inspect the inflamed skin. There's just a hint of shading under the pink.

"You're going to have a wicked bruise tomorrow, Murph."

Murphy whimpers quietly.

"S'that alright?"

Murphy nods. Connor nods back, even though Murphy's not looking at him. "Good." He grabs Murphy's hair and slaps him hard three times in quick succession, and then three more, and his palm is burning as the strikes echo around the basement but he doesn't stop until he starts to see the outline of his palm on his brother's cheek. Murphy jerks in his grip, gritting his teeth and riding it out, and he lists a little to the right when Connor finally releases him.

"I didn't say you could stop sitting up straight." Connor bites his lip a little as soon as he says it - they didn't agree on that, but they didn't agree on any of this, all of this is by feel - but Murphy just rights himself and hums a little. He rolls his shoulders and leans forward a little until he meets Connor's shoulder. Connor reaches up to grab Murphy's hair, but Murphy just presses into the crook of his neck, and the grip turns into soft stroking, which turns into quiet breathing in the heavy silence.

Eventually, Murphy looks up at him, smiling sleepily, and says, "thanks, Conn."

"'Course." Connor returns the smile. "Now get your arse in bed."

Murphy's smile brightens a little and he pushes up off the ground, stumbling to his bed and falling back on it. Connor stays sitting on the floor, watching his brother drop straight into sleep and willing the half-hard erection in his jeans to go down.

~

And that is that.

For about a week.

They stay holed up in the basement for a few more days before Connor starts planning out their next hit. Murphy ventures out under the shadow of night and returns with an address scribbled on a torn off piece of newspaper and a triumphant smile. They've got a place to go as soon as the hit's carried out - one of Smecker's bits on the side who owed him a favor, he's got a shed in back, a bed and a couch and a bathroom and a tiny kitchen and that is all they really need. Murphy tapes it up to the wall next to the door so they can grab it when they head out. Connor commits it to memory anyway.

Their hit is simple. Almost uninteresting. It's a back alley meeting between two drug lords tucked between two apartment buildings, and they post security at every alley point except for up. Connor and Murphy climb up the fire escape on the other side of the building, and then run across the rooftop to the other side. They hand over a balcony edge while dark shadows appear and walk around behind them.

Connor rummages around in his duffel bag and pulls out his guns. "You ready?"

Murphy nods once, eyes sparkling even in the dark, and draws his own pistols out. They check the suppressors one last time, then lean over the railings and carefully take aim.

Two men hit the ground at the same time, and two misfired bullets drive straight into the ground, raking up puffs of concrete dust. Someone shouts and everyone starts running toward the exit, but the triggers keep clicking and the bodies keep falling until only two of the eight or nine people are left alive, sprinting in opposite directions over the adjacent streets. Connor throws his guns in his bag and vaults down onto the ladders, sliding down the lower rungs until he hits the ground hard. 

The hits aren't clean, like they like them to be. Shots to the back of the head or the chest are preferred. Faster. Cleaner. These aren't clean. They're messy and splattered, grazes across one man's chest, another's skull blown in half and leaking grey matter onto the ground. One guard doesn't have a face to put pennies over anymore, and Connor hears Murphy hiss behind him as he drops to the ground.

They drag the bodies to the back of the alley, cross their arms, say their prayers, and cover the wounds with the guards' coats. Some policemen will have a hell of a case in the morning, but really, it's not like anyone thinks it's anyone _but_ them anymore. There will be an official investigation, of course, there always is, and the inaccuracy might throw them off a little, but tomorrow, the headlines will be proclaiming the presence of the saints of South Boston again.

Connor looks around the corner of the alley to make sure there's no one around, then waves his hand, and he and Murphy sprint out from between the buildings. They take the back streets through Boston, ducking through narrow alleyways and around apartment buildings, until they find streets of rundown little houses. Murphy pulls the paper out of his pocket and stares at it in the dark, then scans the row of houses until he finds the one they're looking for. They jump over the wooden fence and knock on the back door and a thin, dark skinned man opens it.

"You Smecker's boy?" Connor asks, out of breath.

"I'm not his _boy_ ," the man says, irritated. "I'm just–"

"But you're who we're looking for, right?" Murphy cuts in.

The man rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that's me. Shed's open, you can lock it from this inside. No one will know you're here."

"Cheers, mate." Connor hefts his duffel bag up higher on his shoulder and turns and walks away, Murphy in tow. He pushes open the shed door with a bit of effort and a crack of dust falls down. Connor wipes the dust off of his face and flicks on the light switch.

It's exactly what they expected, no more and no less. There's a twin bed on one side of the room, a couch on the other, a kitchenette that consists of two counters in the far corner and a small bathroom next to it. The walls are wooden and blank and undecorated, the carpets worn, the metal of the bed frame twisted a little. It's chilly, but there are blankets piled on the end of the couch. Connor shucks his bag and shuts the door tight after Murphy comes in, sliding all three locks into place.

Murphy stands in the middle of the room, staring around the walls as if he doesn't really know what to do with himself. Connor walks over quietly and slides the duffel bag off if Murphy's shoulder, then tosses it onto the couch. Murphy cants to the right a little and Connor catches him, one hand on his arm and the other around his shoulders, and leads him to the bed. Murphy sits down hard and bounces a little on the old mattress and Connor sits down next to him, gently. 

"S'fast," Murphy murmurs.

"What?"

"Happened fast," Murphy slurs. "More'n usual. Takes a day or so."

Connor blinks, and then realization dawns. "Get to sleep, Murph. Y'can have the bed, I'll take the couch."

Murphy ducks his head a little. "Can you leave f'r a couple minutes?"

"What? Why?" Connor asks.

"I wanna pray, but it…" Murphy shrugs his shoulders a little. "It's a private sort of thing, s'not like church, it's just something I need t'do."

Connor nods reluctantly. "Alright. Give me your cigarettes, then."

Murphy nods at his duffel bag. Without another word, Connor stands up and digs them out from between guns and ammunition, then slides the locks open and emerges into the cool Boston night. He lights a cigarette, then tucks the rest of the box into his pocket and takes a long drag. The smoke burns his lungs as it clouds into the night, over and over until he can feel the nicotine buzzing in his fingertips. Neither of them have been smoking very much lately - they have to save funds for food - and Connor doesn't feel like he can take a second right now, so he gently cracks the door back open and slips inside again.

Murphy is still on his knees, forehead resting on the mattress and hands folded behind him, rocking slightly and muttering Latin prayers into the fabric, and he doesn't notice that Connor's coming in until he feels a hand on the back of his neck. He jerks under the touch and whips his head up, but Connor just shakes his head. "You can finish."

Murphy stares for a long moment, then nods jerkily and lowers his head back down onto the mattress. The stream of prayers starts up again, quieter this time, and Connor doesn't try to listen to them. He just rubs the back of Murphy's neck in slow, even circles, trying to ease the tension and more and more keeps building the longer Murphy whispers to himself.

Finally, finally, Murphy straightens up and crosses himself and brushes his bangs out of his eyes. He looks completely lost now, far from cogency. He looks up at Connor, who is still bent over him with his jaw clenched and his eyes wide, and leans into his brother's legs. Connor lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and he crouches down to let Murphy lean against his chest. "We doin' this tonight?"

"You don' have to."

Connor shakes his head. "If you need it tonight, we'll do it tonight."

"But you don' have to."

"But if you need it, then I'm going to, whether or not I need to," Connor says. "Alright?"

Murphy sighs shakily. "Okay."

Connor nods. "Okay. Good. And d'you just want, like, what I did last time?"

Murphy shakes his head. "Not much. Face still hurts, an' I don' want the bruise to get bigger."

"Then what–"

"Y'can use your belt," Murphy says quietly.

Connor opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, so he closes it again. Their Ma never whipped them with a belt - she was always more hands on, Connor thinks, than to let a strip of leather inflict her pain for her - but they had friends whose parents did, friends who would tug down their trousers at school at show off the red stripes of flesh that marked their wrongdoings. It's the only place Connor's ever seen a belt whipping, and he licks his lips before cautiously asking, "Murph? Is this some sort of… punishment?"

Murphy's expression looks pained, and Connor can tell that Murphy knows exactly what he's thinking about. "No, nothin' like that. It just helps distract."

"Okay," Connor says. "But, just to be sure, you're definitely not–"

"No," Murphy says, with a clarity that he hasn't exhibited since they fired their last bullets. 

"Okay. Alright. Good." Connor looks around for a minute, trying to think, then reaches down and unbuckles his belt and slides it out through the loops. Murphy rolls his shoulders back and reaches up to pull at the neck of his shirt, but Connor slaps them away.

"You don' move, okay? Not unless I tell you."

"Yes." It's a breath more than a word, a whisper that Connor can barely hear, but the sincerity projected through it is more than Murphy usually manages, no matter how loudly he speaks.

"Right." Connor drops down on one knee and tugs off Murphy's coat, then wrestles his shirt off. Murphy allows himself to be moved, allows his arms to be pulled, reaches up when he's told and folds his hands in front of him when Connor's done and all that's left on his torso is his tattoos and a bit of sweat.

Connor grabs Murphy's hair again and pushes his face to the mattress's edge, and Murphy lets out a ragged breath that wracks through his body, then goes still. Connor freezes and whispers, "Y'alright?"

Murphy nods slowly. "I'll tell you if 'm not."

"Fair. Okay." Connor straightens up and fingers the edge of his belt. It's worn as hell from being the only belt he'd owned for years, bought from a shop in Dublin when he and Murphy had gone looking for new clothes before they moved to Boston. Years old, easily, worn soft and bendable, but still sturdy enough that he can just–

Connor grips the leather tight before he loses his nerve and brings the belt down hard against Murphy's back. He digs his nails into the seam as Murphy arches a little and lets out a muffled shout. He suspects it would be louder if Murphy's face wasn't pressed into the mattress, but it's still not ideal for being in hiding. "Murph, you need to be quiet."

"What?" Murphy asks, disoriented.

"Shut your face when I'm hittin' you," Connor says. 

Murphy blinks a few times, then nods. "Alright."

He buries his face a little deeper in the blanket on top of the mattress and relaxes his shoulders, a clear invitation for Connor to continue. Connor runs his fingertip over the faint red welt that's starting to emerge right between Murphy's shoulder blades, then strikes again, just underneath it. He sees Murphy's hands twitch and slide to rest on his thighs, his nails scraping over the denim just slightly. Just enough for Connor to know that he's having an effect.

He brings the belt down hard, in bouts of threes and fours, watching carefully as Murphy's fingertips dig into his legs, as his back shudders between strikes and turns bight red and the edges of the belt draw rectangular shapes in his skin. The strikes start to overlap, one after another, until Murphy's back is a study in shades of red and inflamed skin and Murphy is shaking uncontrollably. Connor lets up for a moment and rests his hand gently on Murphy's right shoulder. Murphy presses back into it, but the shaking doesn't stop, and it's not until Connor sits down next to him that he realizes that Murphy is crying.

"Murph? You okay?" Connor says. He feels a panic start to rise up inside him, freezing cold through his entire body. "Why didn't you tell me to stop?"

Murphy pushes his face further into the mattress. "Didn' want you to stop."

"You– what?"

"Keep going," Murphy says. "Please."

Connor's throat tightens at the way Murphy's voice breaks over the last word. "Are you sure?"

" _Please_."

"Okay, Murph," Connor says quietly. Murphy sniffles loudly and blinks hard in the sheets to loose the last tears, then turns his head back and grips his legs again, just like before. Connor stands up, unsteady on his feet, and turns the belt over and over in his hands, as though looking for the spot that will hurt his brother the least.

But there isn't a spot that will hurt Murphy the least, it's all solid and leather and absolution in Murphy's eyes, and that's exactly what Connor has to give to him, so the belt cuts through the air, faster and faster until Connor is sweating with the exertion and Murphy is all but sobbing into the blanket, his knuckles white from his death grip on his thighs. And still it continues, because Murphy never says stop, never gives any hint that he wants it to stop, grows tense when Connor pauses to catch his breath, and it goes on and on until Murphy breaks from crying and simply slumps against the bed, breathing hard, and holds one of his hands out. Connor drops the belt like it's on fire and kneels behind Murphy, wrapping his arms around Murphy's heaving chest. Murphy presses back against him and even through the damp layer of Connor's shirt, he can feel how burning hot Murphy's back is. The skin is a criss-crossed patchwork of livid welts, broken by purple bruises that will only get darker through the night, and the blanket on top of the mattress is damp there Murphy was muffling his yells. Connor rubs one hand over Murphy's chest, wipes away the sweat rises and falls with Murphy's slowing breaths, and they stay that way for a long, long time.

Murphy eventually shifts a little, trying to move his feet, and Connor lets him go. Murphy uncurls himself and sits hard on the floor, rubbing at his knees. Connor takes a moment to study his face, to really look at it, and underneath the puffy, red skin and the stubble and the sweat-drenched bangs plastered to his forehead, he looks more serene than Connor would possibly have thought possible. "Murphy?"

Murphy hums quietly in acknowledgement.

"Murph, are you in there?"

Murphy nods slowly, then reaches out a hand. It lands on Connor's hip and it's only then that Connor becomes aware of how tight the adrenaline has made the front of his jeans.

"Christ, I'm sorry, I'll just…" Connor feels himself flush and the childish desire to cover himself. "I know you don't want to, I mean it just kind of–"

Murphy cuts him off with a glance and a shake of his head. "I get it, Conn. Help me get up in bed, y'can go take care of it."

"Sure?"

"Yeah, jus' wash your hands an' come back after." Murphy's got a faint smile curling across half of his face, and Connor laughs a little in relief, so he wraps one arm around Murphy's waist and hauls him up into the bed. Murphy curls up on his side and Connor throws a blanket over him.

"I'll be back in a minute, okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, bet you will," Murphy says, and Connor can just _hear_ the smirk in his voice. He slaps at the back of his brother's head, then locks himself in the bathroom and surprises himself by taking almost no time at all until he's coming into a balled up wad of tissue paper.

Connor stares in the tiny, dirty bathroom mirror as he catches his breath. A faint flush stains his cheeks and his hair is still damp from sweat, but his eyes sparkle the way Murphy's do before a hit. Connor runs some water and rinses his face off and doesn't think about it after that.

Instead, he dries off and strips off his shirt and slots himself behind Murphy in the bed when he comes back out. Murphy looks like he's a quarter awake at the most, but holds up the edge of the blanket and Connor wraps it around them both. One arm threads its way around Murphy's stomach, and the skin on Murphy's back burns his chest with silent penance.

Connor doesn't know when he falls asleep, but he wakes up to Murphy pouring liberal shots of whiskey into two cups of coffee and he figures that if this is what it takes to keep Murphy functioning, he's glad he's the one who's allowed to do it.


End file.
